Insomnia
by Jay Nice
Summary: Stitching is hard enough for the most well-trained medic, but proves to be about one-hundred times harder when it's a sleep-deprived nine year-old performing suturing at two in the morning on his injured father. One-shot, pre-series.


**Meeting my quota for attempting to publish a story a week...**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. If I did, Dean would never have to endure this story.**

* * *

For a five year-old who still looked half his age, Sam could sure snore. In a way, the sound was a reassurance to Dean that his brother was still breathing, still there. Sammy had caught a cold recently, clogging up his nose and plaguing him with a low-grade fever. It was nothing Dean couldn't handle. He'd dosed the kid up with the last of the children's Tylenol they had, and his sniffles had reduced significantly. Now he was sleeping peacefully, to Dean's relief. Sam was a whiny mess when he was sick, complaining about how his throat was scratchy and how he needed another tissue. It was exhausting, even though the kid wasn't that sick. He should be getting over the worst of it now, much to Dean's relief.

Dad was supposed to be home a few days ago. If he had been, then Dean wouldn't have had to deal with Sam by himself. Now Dean sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair at one am, listening to his brother's congested snorts and looking blearily out the window for the black spot in this white landscape that would be the Impala. It was snowing now; the parking lot to the motel was blanketed in at least a foot of the powdery stuff. Dean hoped that his dad would brave the weather—no matter how bad it may be—so he could get back to his sons. Dean hadn't slept well in days, kept awake by both his fevered brother and the anxiousness for his father that always came when he was out hunting.

It was supposed to be a werewolf hunt. John claimed to have all the details sorted out, but Dean saw the frown on his face while he had been researching. He was worried something would happen, that his father would become acquainted unwillingly with a werewolf's long claws. He shuddered at the thought, unpleasant images of his father's mangled body now strewn across his mind. _No, _he told himself. _Dad's a better hunter than that. He won't let some mange-ridden fleabag defeat him._

Dean shivered, pushing the macabre pictures from his mind and wishing for a fleeting moment that he could be selfish and take one of the many blankets piled on Sammy off so that he could have one. However, he knew that Sam needed every single one of them. He didn't need his brother's ailment getting worse because this stupid motel didn't keep up with its maintenance. He'd tried turning the heater on the day they'd arrived at this crappy place, but the machine had promptly sputtered and died. So much for that. Now, Dean was huddled in his thickest sweatpants and hoodie, but they didn't seem to be doing their job of making him warm.

Dean let out a shuddering sigh. He spared a glance outside once more, just in case he had somehow missed the Impala pulling in, then rose to check on Sammy. The kid was still sleeping peacefully, thank goodness, sprawled out like an octopus with a stray appendage falling over the side of the bed. Dean carefully tucked the arm back into the warm cavern of blankets and felt Sam's forehead. A little warm still, though that could just be from all of the comforters surrounding him. His brother stirred at the contact, but didn't wake from his peaceful stupor. If he woke up now, Dean knew there would be no getting him back to sleep.

Dean wanted to crawl in bed with Sam, to concede to the fact that he was cold and tired and miserable, but he didn't want to disturb his brother. He needed the warmth and comfort more than Dean did. Even if he _did_ lay down, he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep for another few hours, instead opting to stare at the dark mold stain on the ceiling or worry about why his father was late, and did he get hurt? So instead of curling up and giving in to resting like his body so desperately wanted to, he settled on the shopworn divan that inadequately served as a couch and flickered on the TV, keeping the volume muted while watching the midnight soap operas that kept him company on the long nights. He didn't understand it half the time, but the only other channels this place had were the local news network, twenty-four-hour Sesame Street (which pleased Sammy on most days), and the paid programmings, always over-dramatizing kitchen utensils for 19.99 plus shipping. Daytime dramas (and their nighttime reruns) were Dean's companions after hours.

He must have drifted off a bit, because he was jolted awake when he heard a loud blast that sounded like a gunshot going off. Dean looked immediately towards Sammy, but the five year-old was somehow still asleep. Dean blinked blearily, everything suddenly cloudy. Had he just imagined the sound?

Dean rubbed his eyes, too tired to comprehend anything. He laid down again on the backless couch, not noticing that the motel door had been slammed open, hence the crashing noise.

John Winchester stumbled blindly into the motel room, grimacing with each movement. The room was pitch black, not surprising there, but John couldn't see the dark embodiments of either his sons. With all that ruckus he'd accidentally made, why weren't they up to investigate?

"Dean!" he hissed, making a wry face as that single word drove a sharp pain in his chest. Hearing no response, he hobbled to the bed, finding only one small shape there. "Dean!" he repeated more urgently, ignoring the burning ache that ensued harshly.

"Dad?"

John turned towards the small voice, finally spotting Dean's dark figure on the threadbare couch, outlined by the faint glow of the television. "Yeah, it's me, son," he whispered hoarsely. "First aid kit, bathroom, now."

"Yes, sir," came the kid's voice, tired yet obedient. John clutched his chest, making his way slowly to the miniscule cubicle that was equipped with a toilet and shower to make it a "bathroom". He sat on the toilet seat, groaning in discomfort. In the flickering light, he could see just how the crimson was spreading across his t-shirt. Dean looked at him, green eyes with dark circles underneath them wide with shock. "W-what happened?" he stuttered, obviously put down by fatigue and only standing by the power of adrenaline.

John shook his head. "Later," he promised. "Need your help."

Dean nodded and opened the insignificant first aid kit to pull out a pair of scissors. "I should cut your shirt off, right?"

John nodded. There was no way he'd be able to get his shirt off, assistance or not.

Dean swiftly cut through the thin material of John's shirt, swallowing painfully when he saw the masterpiece that was his father's chest. Three long lacerations tore across his pectorals, still bleeding profusely, and the skin was different shades of blue and purple, looking like a gruesome rainbow. "Dad..." he whispered, looking up with large eyes. John could see the fear in his son's face.

"Needle and thread, you know how to do this," he reminded his eldest.

Dean looked down for a moment, the grabbed the suplies he needed. The alacrity with which the nine year-old gained control of the situation was alarming, but John couldn't bring himself to question his parenting when he could very well be bleeding out.

"Clear away the blood," Dean muttered to himself like he was reding from an instruction manual. "Clean the wounds. Stitch it up. Clean again. Bandage."

"That's right," John affirmed. "Just take a deep breath; I'm right here."

Dean did as he was instructed and grabbed one of the towels that was sitting on the floor. He gingerly pressed the scratchy material onto John to soak up most of the excess blood. John grimaced, letting out a low groan. "Sorry," Dean said quietly, continuing his action but with a lighter touch now. John could see the tremors in his son's body as he fought to hold it together.

The first aid kit was equipped with a flask containing whiskey for cleaning out cuts since John found a large bottle of peroxide too bulky to haul around in their compact kit. "This is going to hurt, Dad," Dean whispered before dripping the amber liquid on the open cuts. John hissed through his teeth and grabbed the flask when Dean was done, swallowing a swig of the alcohol.

Now for the hardest step. Dean prepared the needle for the first suture, sterilizing it properly like a professional. His hands were shaking and tears were beginning to leak from his eyes. John saw these as the signs of his son being overwhelmed combined with exhaustion. "I can't do it, Dad," Dean said, shaking his head wildly. "I can't do this."

"Yes you can," John grunted. "I need you to do this, Dean."

Dean glanced at his father, face shrouded with disbelief. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You'll hurt me more if you don't hurry up."

"Sorry, sir." Dean was trembling, but he persevered and made the first stitch.

It was a long and painful process, but the job was finished, John gaining a countless number of stitches in perfect rows, better than any hospital medic could have done. He cleaned the wounds again, then trusted Dean to bandage up the lacerations. John was already feeling better once it was all done. By the time it was completed, it was nearly four in the morning and John was exhausted. His son, swaying on his feet in front of him, looked awful. He'd worn a pained expression the entire time he was suturing, and John could only guess about his mental state right now.

"Come here, kiddo," John murmured, holding out his arms towards his son and ignoring the slight twinge in his new stitches. Dean, face drawn with sorrow, nodded somberly and sat on his dad's knee, carefully avoiding the area he knew was hurt when he rested his head on his shoulder. "You did good, Dean. I'm proud of you."

"I'm sorry I hurt you," Dean said. "If I'd been more careful, you—"

"You did good," John repeated, running his hand through his son's hair. "This type of thing always hurts. It's not your fault."

"Okay." Dean yawned and shifted closer to his father. "Did you get it?"

John knew that he was referring to hunt. "Of course. Nasty wendigo."

Dean looked up with innocuous, wide eyes. "You said it was a werewolf."

"I was wrong. And I paid for that."

"Oh."

John caught the second yawn before it began. "What do you say we go to bed?"

Dean nodded lethargically and made sure his father was steady on his feet before proceeding out of the bathroom. John lowered himself down on the bed opposite to where Sam was still sleeping soundly. Dean found himself back on the half-couch, ready to sleep forever, no matter how uncomfortable the springs poking into his back were.

And all was peaceful in Winchester land—for a few hours, at least.

* * *

**Thank you for reading! I'd love for you to leave a review!**


End file.
